


Painting the Ceiling Blue

by Terene



Category: Bleach
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Psychological, anti-romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-07
Updated: 2009-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terene/pseuds/Terene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief and austere excursion into the nihilistic mind of Ulquiorra. Aizen/Ulquiorra content, but most definitely not romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting the Ceiling Blue

_My view of life, my view of the world, is as bleak, as barren, as black-and-white as the landscape of Hueco Mundo, my natural habitat. How can I color my vision? The results of any such attempt will undoubtedly be as meaningless as the sky-blue ceiling of Los Noches._

* * *

"As you wish, Aizen-sama," I say evenly in response to my lord's latest command. He nods his dismissal of me, subtle smile of utter confidence and mastery shaping his lips. I bow, then turn to exit the cavernous, austere throne room.

My fellow Espada, also dismissed, walk out at my heels but quickly veer from my path in favor of their own destinations. Only one remains in my company, and he trots to my side. I have no need to turn my head to know that it is Grimmjow, even without sensing his telltale reiatsu. He undoubtedly intends to goad me again as he is so fond of doing.

I don't like him. He is easily angered, always impassioned and opinionated. I do not understand him. Perhaps this is what they call envy.

"Don't you have a mind of your own, Ulquiorra?" he demands, a hint of disgust coloring his tone.

I ignore him.

"Hey, bastard, I asked you a question. Or can't you answer without your precious Aizen-sama's permission?"

"Unless you speak to me on Aizen-sama's business, I have no need or desire to talk to you."

Grimmjow snorts. "That's exactly the kind of shit I'm talking about. Don't you have a mind of your own?"

I have reached my own rooms, and I turn around in the doorway to face him. I stare at him for a moment, stoically, noting his annoyance at my nonexistent reaction. "No, I don't," I say passively, and I shut the door in his face.

Grimmjow is not alone in his opinion of me. Everyone thinks I exist as a puppet, blindly carrying out Aizen-sama's wishes. They are incorrect. I think for myself. I make decisions by weighing the options and selecting the logical choice. Usually this equates with doing as Aizen-sama asks of me.

Yet I follow him for reasons that go slightly beyond logic as well. First, I am mildly curious to learn whether or not his carefully-laid plans will succeed, especially since they involve myself and my brethren. I do not understand his motives, his goals. Perhaps when he attains them I will understand. Second, I owe him my devotion, because without his help I would likely never have risen above my previous bestial state.

Are these feelings like human emotions? I don't understand human emotions. Are these feelings like love? I have never known love.

What is love? All that I can determine about its nature is that it is illogical and unexplainable. I don't believe in it. It is a myth invented by humans to give meaning to their meaningless existence. Would I believe in it if I felt it? If I felt it, would I understand it?

* * *

_One cannot see pictures in immovable clouds._

* * *

It is true that Aizen-sama favors me above all my fellow Espada, even above Halibel, Barragan, and Stark. He knows instinctively that I am the most trustworthy, the most devoted, the most rational. But his favoritism stems from another source as well.

He lusts for me.

Lust I understand, for it follows logic, though I have never felt it. I have always seen it in Aizen-sama's eyes when he looks at me.

Therefore, I am not surprised when he takes me aside after today's Espada briefing. Looking at me out of the corners of his manipulative eyes, that ever-present, cool smile of his twitching slightly at the edges, he says, "I have been very pleased with you recently, Ulquiorra. Come to my room later this evening. I have a little… reward I would like to give you."

"As you wish, Aizen-sama," I say automatically.

I go, of course. If Aizen-sama desires it, then I will comply. I have no reason to refuse.

I am merely curious. Humans consider sex an act of love. Aizen-sama understands the ways of humans. Does Aizen-sama love me?

I stand in front of his door, and I knock without hesitation. His voice radiates pleasantly from within. "Please come in, Ulquiorra. I've been waiting for you." I open the door and step into the room.

I have never seen its inside before. It is very large and sparsely furnished, yet somehow luxurious nevertheless. White dominates the room, with a little black here and there, trimming the furniture and framing several recesses in the walls that house lamps. The front portion of the room contains a couch flanked by two matching chairs and two small tables. Aizen-sama sits on the couch in a relaxed position, smiling at me with kind eyes that barely mask hunger. The back half of the room is set off from the rest of the room by its sunken floor, rimmed by two wide, curving steps that reach from wall to wall. This is what draws my eyes, because in its center sits an oversized bed. Its coverlet is deep crimson.

"Good evening, Ulquiorra. Come closer, please," Aizen-sama beckons. I approach him and stand immediately before him. I wonder briefly what he will do, what tactics he will use to seduce me. It doesn't matter; it is unnecessary. He only needs to command me. Surely he knows this? Yet he will undoubtedly use smooth words. Will this be for the sake of his pride or for the sake of his amusement?

To my surprise, he rises, lifts my chin with his right hand, and kisses me. His left hand rests on the small of my back and firmly guides my body closer to his. His mouth is insistent, forceful, invasive—such a contrast to his usual polite mannerisms.

At last he draws back, and he licks his lips, as if to show that that kiss has only whet his appetite. In an alluring whisper he asks, "Were you aware that I think of you in this way, my dearest Espada?"

"Yes, Aizen-sama," I answer truthfully, evenly.

"As observant as always," he notes in a fond tone. "I have always had much reason to be proud of you. You never fail me; you never disappoint me. And you're very beautiful. I've thought so ever since I first saw you emerge from your transformation as a newly created Arrancar. I've wanted you for a long time." He interrupts his own beguiling speech to kiss me once more, this time snaking his tongue out to tease along the seam of my closed mouth, tempting it open. I obediently allow it entry. I feel like he is suffocating me, as if by plundering my mouth he is commandeering my very ability to reason, and, with it, my identity. I don't like it.

"Could you possibly think of me in this way too?" he murmurs in my ear while licking its edge and nipping at the lobe. "It would make me very happy if you could return my feelings."

"I will try."

"Would it please you to lie with me, Ulquiorra? I would like to give you this."

"If it pleases you, that is all that is necessary, Aizen-sama."

"Very well, then. But I want you to be happy too, you know," he says falsely, then a subtle—and subtly dangerous—grin appears on his face. He sits down again and appraises me with those glinting eyes before continuing contemplatively. "But perhaps serving me makes you happy. If that's the case, then show me your devotion, Ulquiorra."

I know what he wants. It doesn't matter, so I don't hesitate. I kneel between his knees and bring out his member from the folds of his clothing. It begins to grow and harden in my hands. Tentatively I touch my tongue to its tip, and, after Aizen-sama nods approvingly, I begin to lick up and down its length, acquainting myself with its taste and texture. Soon he is fully erect, and slowly I slide my lips over the swollen head.

Abruptly abandoning his passivity, he grips the horn on my mask firmly and pulls my head closer, shoving himself down my throat so deeply that I feel like I'm going to vomit. I suppress the feeling as well as I can, and I look up at him, attempting to read in his face his feelings, but his expression is as enigmatic as ever. I try to move my tongue around the mass that is pressing it down, try to move it in a way that will give him pleasure. Perhaps if I please him well enough I'll be able to determine what he truly feels for me.

I've lost track of time; my consciousness has become lost in my mouth. Will he never reach his limit?

At last. He utters no sound as he comes, eerily; only closed eyes and a slightly furrowed brow betray his body's pleasure. His release spills into my throat, and I have no choice but to swallow.

"And _such_ devotion," he says, as if only a moment had passed since he had last spoken, and he trails one finger along my cheek. "But I said I would lie with you, and you must strip for that. Please do so."

Without a word I remove my clothes, and then he pulls me over to the bed. He pushes me down on the crimson coverlet, on my hands and knees.

I don't resist him, because I don't care. What is the joining of one's body to another's when one feels no emotion? Pleasure means nothing to me, for it has very little usefulness. Pain has more.

A cold, slick finger enters me, and after a few moments another joins it, followed by one more. After moving them around for a minute he removes them, and immediately replaces them with his again-swollen member.

I feel only pain at first, but gradually the sensation expands, encompassing feelings nearer and nearer pleasure. His hand grips my own member and strokes it vigorously while he begins to move inside me. With each thrust his movements gain intensity.

After several minutes of this, my body has reached its full capacity for pleasure, and I come in his hand, gritting my teeth but still giving a small, involuntary cry. Even in the throes of my release, I realize this has taken on no meaning for me. And, if possible, it means even less to him. According to my book-knowledge of human emotion, this should hurt, but I feel nothing.

I doubt he will be through with me anytime soon, so I give myself over to this useless mixture of pleasure and pain, resign myself to this meaningless game.

I see. So that's sex. It has nothing to do with love after all.

* * *

_One cannot appreciate blue skies unless he has felt the rain._

* * *

Tonight I have decided to visit the world of humans. I don't know why. It is unlike me to act outside of logic, but something compels me. I simply found my feet on a newly-solidified path in the Garganta before I had even properly considered the idea.

Tonight I am a fool, it seems.

The fabric of space tears, and I look down at a twinkling cityscape, darkness-bathed and blanketed in relative quiet. I step into the open sky, resealing the world's dimensions behind me.

For what purpose am I here? I have none. What shall I do; where shall I go? What do I seek?

A feeling of self-ridicule builds up inside me for not having answers to these questions. Why do questions multiply and answers decrease? Yet once more, I start to move without further consideration.

I end up standing outside a small house, by the looks of it belonging to a lower-middle-class family with a child or two. After staring at the facade for several minutes, I make a move to enter. Here walls do not constrain me, and I step directly indoors.

The room in which I find myself is lit by a soft, warm light. The walls are painted a pale yellow and covered with pictures, mostly what appear to be family photographs. A plant in a sturdy vase stands in the corner; several toys are strewn on the bright rug. There is so much color. A television plays a movie softly, and light flashes with the changing screen. A large couch dominates the room, and on it are seated a man and a woman.

They are young, and the man's arm is draped around the woman's shoulder. They don't seem to be paying much attention to the movie, since they're talking in low tones. I listen to their conversation for a few minutes. They speak of mundane things—his work, her day, people they know. They repeat two names often, which I take to be their children.

They look happy. Why? I don't understand. They have nothing that distinguishes them from any other human family. People cannot make other people happy—don't they understand this?

Let them continue to live in their precious delusion. It doesn't matter.

Turning away from the couple, I enter one of the other rooms, which I immediately recognize as a small child's bedroom. A crib stands in the middle of the room, and I step over to it. I look inside to see the child, a little girl barely more than a baby, deep in sleep.

Standing over the child, I am struck suddenly by strong imagery of a human legend of which I once read, a legend of a pale-skinned creature, like a human yet unlike, undying, beautiful, deadly. A creature of the darkness, something to be feared. A legend born in humans' minds from the image of a bat. If humans were to see me now, they would probably mistake me for a vampire but for my white clothing, and if I were in Resurrección their fears would be all but confirmed.

Yet vampire tales are always associated with passion. What supreme irony.

My thoughts drift back to the child, sleeping peacefully in her crib. How pitiful, to be born worthless.

Humans are nothing more than trash, completely powerless to affect the world, this new world that Aizen-sama will create. Significance is impossible, unattainable.

I exist because I am powerful. If ever my power ceases to be sufficient for survival, I will end. I too will become nothing more than trash, and I will blow away like debris on the wind. That is as it should be.

Yet these humans exist, utterly oblivious to their unmitigated worthlessness, seemingly content in their absolute weakness. Why? Why aren't they blown away on the wind? They should be obliterated; it is only logical.

I stretch out my forefinger, and a cero forms at its tip. I look down once again at the child, curled on one side, clutching some soft, well-worn toy in her small hand. I will crush her. I should crush her.

Will her parents weep? Will they feel pain? Or will they simply accept it as the inevitable happening a little sooner than expected? Aizen-sama, the closest thing to a parent we of the Espada have, has never so much as flinched when one of us has been killed. That same complacent expression never left his face.

Slowly I withdraw my finger, and the concentrated emerald energy dissipates. I don't care enough to bother.

I question myself. Do I feel something, anything, for this child? Pity, compassion, protectiveness, love? Perhaps love is nothing more than the inability to act as logic dictates. Yet I realize that I would not go out of my way to save this child from danger. I feel no emotion for her. I simply do not like unnecessary destruction, do not like to leave messes.

With that realization, I feel a familiar sense of detachment and cool logic wash over me, like icy water. Frowning at my own foolishness, I abruptly turn away from the child and promptly prepare to return to the only place where I have any business.

* * *

_I don't know. I want to know. I don't care. I want to care. Can I know, can I care?_

_My skin is this ghostly gray-white naturally, but these lines on my face, these tear-travesties, are carefully outlined by myself daily. Each time, I look at the teal lines and the faintest chuckle of self-derision sounds in my throat. Perhaps, in the end, I am simply painting the ceiling blue._


End file.
